The boy and his horse
by SilverRaindemon
Summary: Sherlock finds a new friend when he needs one much. And it's a horse in fact.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Sherlock doesn't belong to me unfortunately.

It was supposed to be a one-shot and basically a sketch, but I think there will be more to it. I am desperate to know what you think, so please review!

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Sherlock is two, a walking adorability, all bouncing curls, chubby cheeks and sturdy legs. He is making his way slowly but stubbornly through the overgrown weeds. He can hear his mother laugh somewhere in the streams of sunshine in the middle of the field. Sherlock already knows the field starts right behind the garden of their mansion. His mother often takes him to the field and they spend glorious hours playing, laughing and lazying about. When Mycroft comes from school he often joins them, already growing very serious for his age but still able to throw his dignity to the wind and roll in the grass or chase his baby brother through the intoxicating aromas of thyme and sage.

Sherlock is angry at his small legs, his mind is whirring, nudging his clumsy and slow toddler body to move faster than it is capable of. No wonder he trips over the next tussock. Sherlock is seriously considering crying for a moment but then a long golden nuzzle appears in front of the toddler and a large wet brown eye stares at him with immense curiosity. The foal is much taller than Sherlock but when mother scoops the toddler in her arms laughing and cuddling him, Sherlock sees the foal from above and its height barely reaches mother's waist. He stretches plump fingers to the strayed from the nearest farm golden miracle with short shaggy mane and almost humanly puzzled expression of the nuzzle.

Mother's voice is shimmering with golden flecks of sunshine as everything around on this happy morning, 'How would you call your brave stallion, Sherly, dear?'

Sherlock frowns, back on the ground and suddenly shy. The foal stumbles closer, totally unafraid of humans, friendly and a little skittish. 'John,' Sherlock finally decides, reaches for the foal and pats its silken mane affectionately. In this long stretch of colorful summer Sherlock has a new friend by his side.

Sherlock is six, thin and almost translucent, all baby fat gone as if blown away with a gust of the wind. Stormy grey eyes consume the deathly pale face, raven curls are badly in need of a cut, neglected for a long time now. His mummy is gone. It's been days and it's only getting worse, the empty house with patient servants is unbearable. Mycroft has run away back to the boarding school right after the funeral, and it's not something Sherlock is going to forget or forgive for a long time.

It's cold, the grass withered and flowers losing the petals. Sherlock is strictly forbidden to leave the territory of the mansion, his father was adamant about that. But he is out in the field anyway, running to the farther end where the field abruptly ends in a steep. It's a long fall to the shallow river beneath. Sherlock stops on the very edge of the abyss, his eyes dry and furious, he hates his life and his loneliness. He is searching for clues in the whirls of opalescent clouds and finds none. He makes a small step towards the abyss at last, then another one…

One foot of the boy is almost touching the emptiness when strong jaws close on the collar of his shirt and Sherlock is gently yanked up. He cries in surprise and squirms till he can finally see the warm golden hide and tousled mane from the corner of his eye. John drags him away from the edge and drops unceremoniously, neighing softly. Sherlock jumps to his feet and wonders at his old acquaintance. Now it's a strong tall beast with taut muscles clear under the velvety hide. But the mane is as short and unkempt as ever and wet brown eyes are as curious and wise. John nudges Sherlock cheerfully and the fragile boy is almost swept off his feet. 'Hey,' Sherlock grumbles but he is already distracted from the darkness that engulfed his thoughts for days, he is intrigued and relieved, he isn't alone any more. Suddenly he is just a boy again and when he darts ahead the tawny horse bucks enthusiastically and follows.

Far away in the shadows of his school room teenaged but already powerful Mycroft lowers his phone and smiles mournfully.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock is twelve, already very much into one of his growth spurts, limbs awkward and tending to get tangled in themselves. He is running along the street, inky curls plastered across the forehead with sweat despite noticeable frost. He is glancing over his shoulder once in a while and desperation intensifies with every heartbeat as he realizes his followers are closer and closer. Inevitably. Mercilessly. Their shouts are ringing in the crisp clear winter air, "Freak! Stop and fight like a man!"

He is trying to see what he has done wrong but only feels bitter. He was showing off in class, but he really can't help being cleverer than his peers. Most of the times he even proves to be smarter than his teachers. Sherlock has already learnt not to raise his hand when he knows the answer but he hasn't a slightest idea how to fake not knowing something when directly asked.

Sherlock hates the village school but his father decided he needs to communicate with other kids instead of only working with tutors. Mycroft couldn't intervene, although he tried. Sherlock doesn't know about that and thinks Mycroft has abandoned him once again in this fight against their father. Another drop of disappointment, another brick in the wall between him and his elder brother.

It's an incredibly beautiful winter day with rare sunrays slashing through the typically gray low-hanging sky, trees covered with lacy silvery rime and puffy snow, so white it hurts the eye, adorning the ground. Sherlock hears the thumps of feet behind him, so close they echo in his head, synchronizing with blood beating in his temples. And suddenly he hears something else, very near but ahead, an oh-so-familiar sound of hoof beats.

Sherlock stops abruptly and his followers' shouts grow triumphant and then dead silence falls as a lean golden stallion gallops on the road from the nearest grove. Sherlock turns to face his enemies, one eye already starting to puff up from the first blows he didn't expect. John skids to a halt till his muzzle hangs just above boy's skinny shoulder, then rears up, beating his hooves in the air, whinnying sternly, as if hinting at consequences. Sherlock has always been wondering at the multitude of meanings John can express with a simple neigh.

It is with spiteful satisfaction that Sherlock looks in the red coarse faces of his classmates, but he also feels tired and rejected. He will never be one of them, he will never have friends. John huffs warmly in the boy's ear, sounding almost hurt. Sherlock smiles in spite of himself, of course, he has a friend, the very best friend a boy can dream of.

John isn't saddled but they both know they don't need it. Sherlock grabs his mane and when John bends his forelegs slightly the boy easily swings up and over the wide back. His knees habitually grip golden sides darkened with sweat, fingers tangle in the soft hair. A slight nudge is enough to send John off into a lazy trot that soon becomes a full gallop. Gaping faces of Sherlock's classmates are lost in a whirl of snow rising from under John's back hooves.

The ride is much too short for Sherlock's liking. He waves to a tiny elderly woman fussing around the farm stables, 'Thanks for letting him out, Mrs. Hudson!'. The wrinkled face lights up with a motherly smile, "But Sherlock, dear, it was either that or let him break his stable into pieces. He has been fidgeting since the early morning and about half an hour ago simply went mad. We are all so lucky my husband is away at the races today. You know he doesn't approve when John is running around like that."

John is a race horse and a rather promising one, Sherlock knows. But he doesn't really care. He would love John all the same if he was a simple plough horse like those that were raised on the farm before its owner, Mr. Hudson decided to go into another line of business.

Sherlock leads John into his stable, carefully cleans him and locks the door. Then he perches on the crossbeam, balancing precariously and watches John crunching his hay peacefully. He tells his friend in a hushed voice about every single observation he made today – about their new history teacher sleeping with the school guard, about one of his most blatantly masculine classmates being in fact gay, about the bench in the canteen that will break next time their fat math teacher plumps on it, about Mrs. Hudson being abused by her husband and what Sherlock can possibly do about it. Observations small and significant, everything that falls in Sherlock's field of view. Everything that isn't boring, everyday, routine. John listens carefully, and sometimes he nods as if he understands. Sherlock is absolutely sure he truly understands.


	3. Chapter 3

I got the idea from one of Dick Francis's novels. I hope you enjoy this longer chapter as the next - the last one - will be very short.

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Sherlock is sixteen, stopped growing at last, hair longer than usual, almost reaching his shoulders – another attempt to make their father mad. He is slowly rising from the river, sitting on John's back, unevenly cut under the knees jeans – his only clothes - completely wet. Shining water droplets on the pale skin create an almost unearthly halo around slender but no longer fragile body. Sherlock is riding carelessly, one hand tangled in the tawny mane, the other resting on a wide rump that is moving steadily under his fingers as John climbs up the bank from the water edge. Mycroft, already out of uni and into a minor position in the British government but currently on a short vacation, watches his brother from the grassland above. They concluded a temporary armistice but it pains Mycroft to know his brother seems to hate him.

John is already rather old for a horse, but years have been extremely kind for him. There is not a single white hair in the golden hide and he is as strong and swift as in his racing days. He shakes his wet mane splashing Sherlock with a shimmering wave of crystal clear drops. Sherlock laughs, the sound so happy and innocent that it tugs at Mycroft's heart a little but makes him smile nevertheless.

'A most curious matter has been brought to my attention, ' Mycroft states when they are walking slowly back to the mansion, John trotting obediently between the brothers, 'it is most unfortunate I have no time to preoccupy myself fiddling with it. And the police seem to remain totally ignorant as ever'.

Sherlock frowns; armistice or not he will never admit to his brother that he is willing to help. He is terribly bored most of the time. Even John isn't enough to distract him anymore; Sherlock grows up and his thoughts are moving faster and faster, he is desperate for something, anything to occupy his brilliant mind, to keep it from turning on itself in destructive dissection. Mycroft knows how it feels and he is ready to step on his pride to help his baby brother. So he simply goes on, 'In the last two years approximately a dozen horses that previously showed rather mediocre results in racing won the races. Each horse won only once and was afterwards quickly discarded. None of these horses ever got higher than the 3rd-4th place before. None of these horses ever took part in the racing again.'

Sherlock tries to be impassive, but he knows his brother can see his enthusiasm. Honestly he doesn't care now, his brain is buzzing happily. Mycroft turns slightly away to hide a little satisfied smile. John is snuffling contentedly, trying to put his heavy head on Sherlock's shoulder from time to time and shoved away at once gently by a pale long-fingered hand.

'My attention was brought to this case after one of the horses mysteriously went mad in the middle of the track. The jockey was hurt badly, and he is the only heir of a very distinguished family. He was supposed to ride another horse that day but the stable owner insisted on a replacement. The horse seemed too old to take part in the races anyway but not according to the documents. The same can be said about the rest of the horses.' Mycroft tightens his lips. 'Do you know why I am talking to you about this case?'

Sherlock looks hurt by this distrust in his thinking abilities, 'Mr. Hudson was the stable owner who insisted on the replacement, why else?' Mycroft allows his brother to see his pleased smile at that, 'Yes, I gather you have plenty of opportunities to observe him. Just be very careful, Sherlock. If you can find the way these horses were made to win…'

Sherlock snaps impatiently, 'Oh, it's obvious, isn't it? Adrenaline surge provoked by some sort of signal, something they were trained for, something fixed as a conditioned reflex.'

Mycroft nods benevolently, 'What signal exactly?' Sherlock deflates quickly, 'I don't know,' he pauses, walking slowly for several heartbeats, then his gaze steels and he adds 'yet.'

'Find some proof, Sherlock, then I will talk to father about your going to the university earlier than you are supposed to, ' Mycroft notices eager almost hungry look in the ever-changing eyes of his brother and shudders at the thought of what can happen if this sharp mind is applied to the wrong cause. He leaves a manila file for Sherlock to find in his room when he leaves for London. The file contains horses descriptions starting with the one that went crazy and had to be shot afterwards.

Sherlock spends the next 24 hours shut in his room with the file and the Internet. There is absolutely nothing the horses have in common except for two facts. First, they were never considered favourites, so when they won the races someone got an exceedingly large sum of prize money. Second, at some point of their biography these horses spend from two to three weeks in Mr. Hudson's stables. In fact Sherlock can remember most of them himself. He saw glimpses of them when visiting John. Several horses went to the races representing Hudson's stable, some were bought by other stables first and represented other stables. Sherlock thinks intensely, pacing his room over and over again. The fact that the horses never took part in the races afterwards shows that the conditioned reflex used to provoke the adrenaline surge is harmful for the horses. But what was used to trigger the reaction on the track? It should have been something unnoticeable but very clear even in the noises of the crows. Was it a sign, a thing, a sound, a smell?

Sherlock despairs at last of thinking of a plausible version on his own and decides to try and gather some evidence. He plans to cover his snooping around under the pretense of his usual visit to John. Mrs. Hudson has already spilled the beans about Mycroft arranging a certain payment for Mr. Hudson not to sell John and allow Sherlock see him whenever he likes. Sherlock would never acknowledge even to himself that he is grateful to his brother; instead he tries to pretend he is annoyed by being indebted to Mycroft.

John's stall is unexpectedly empty but Sherlock doesn't worry at first, seeing no suspicious signs of John being taken away unwillingly. But red-rimmed eyes of Mrs. Hudson fire a spark of suspicion that soon blows up in a scorching fire of fear and anger.

'I'm so sorry, Sherlock,' she sniffs, 'I could do nothing to stop them. I wish I knew where exactly Mr. Hudson's lodge is, John was taken there probably. There is a small stable too as far as I know.'

Sherlock is almost sick with worry now. He doesn't allow himself to even think of calling Mycroft. It would be shameful to ask for help without a proper solution to the case. If only he could find the lodge, it can't be far away, but the forests that circle the farm are too large to search through them on his own. He is wasting the precious time. In despair he tries the police station. The officer on duty laughs in his face, 'You really think we should be after the horse that was taken somewhere by its rightful owner just because some kid thinks he might hurt it?' Sherlock feels his ears flare up bright red as he leaves the station. Burning anger is blurring his vision. He tries to blink it away and walks right into a young sergeant with kind brown eyes. 'Hey, what's wrong with you?' the sergeant asks in a friendly rumble, then looks at Sherlock closer, 'I know you, you're that boy with the horse. Where did you lose your buddy?'

It's too much, much more than Sherlock can bear. Disregarding humiliating flush now spreading from the ears across his whole face he spills out everything he knows and all his disappointment in the local police force at the wide-eyed sergeant. After he is done and an agonizing pause sergeant suddenly rolls his eyes in disbelief – but it isn't aimed at Sherlock, he obviously can't believe he is going to do what he is doing next. He murmurs, 'I am so going to regret this, kid…' Sherlock bristles, 'My name is Sherlock Holmes.' The sergeant laughs good-naturedly and, surprising Sherlock even further, shakes his hand, 'Lestrade, Greg Lestrade, but you call me sergeant, Sherlock. Now listen to me very carefully.'

Ten minutes later they are driving to Mr. Hudson's lodge, Lestrade's agreed to check the exact location in the database and go with Sherlock to make sure John is fine. 'And if the horse is fine,' he adds mercilessly, 'I will make sure not only your father learns about your wasting an officer's time but you will never be allowed anywhere near any police station in England ever again.' Sherlock is nodding so vigorously at this that his head is threatening to break off the neck any moment now.

Sherlock is nagging at the sergeant during the whole drive and finally Lestrade agrees to stop a little earlier and walk the rest of the wide forest path to the lodge. And when Sherlock sees familiar hoof prints he knows John is here indeed – he found the shoes with unusual indentation for John himself and made Mrs. Hudson replace the usual ones with his secretly when the smith was shoeing John next time.

Lestrade is intent on walking straight to the door and knocking when suddenly they hear a cry, so mournful and full of fear and pain that it could have been human. Sherlock goes off like a comet around the corner of the house, Lestrade shouting at him to stop, then rolling his eyes again and following at the same breakneck speed.

The scene that opened to Greg's eyes was at the very least heart-breaking. He saw a golden horse covered in a lather tied to a thick branch of an old dry oak. The rope was so short the stallion could only rear but not move around the tree. A short ferrety man was brandishing a flamethrower at a very small distance from John's forelegs. There was a whistle between the man's teeth but no sound could be heard. Lestrade felt his heart brought into his mouth when Sherlock slid in barely millimeters from the open flame and threw himself on John's neck, effectively placing himself between the crying horse and the flamethrower.

'Idiot boy!' Lestrade shouts, tackling Hudson to the ground and kicking the flamethrower as far as possible while handcuffing the man simultaneously. When he jumps to his feet leaving Hudson swearing in the dirt he sees Sherlock as if welded to John's neck and the horse slowly calming back down. The boy stares at Greg from under the curly fringe soaked with stallion's lather.

'The dog whistle,' Sherlock states clearly, his eyes becoming unfocused in a dreamlike state, 'people can't hear it because it produces the sound in the ultrasonic range, but dogs and cats can. And apparently horses too. ' Greg only shakes his head in wonder. Sherlock doesn't pay him any attention, his hands stroking John's back tenderly, 'That's what he did – he selected a horse that no one would think of as of a potential favourite in the races, he created false documents if the horse was too old to even take part but still in a good shape like John. Then he trained them,' at this Sherlock and John seem to shudder together, then the boy clings to his friend even closer and continues in half-whisper, 'and at the track when they heard the dog whistle they remembered the flame. And they ran as fast as they could, adrenaline surge helping them to win. But most probably they became so nervous and jerky they couldn't be trusted to take part in the race again. Some of them apparently couldn't be trusted to do it even once, like the one that threw its jockey off.'

Greg hauls Hudson to his feet, throws a gloomy stare at Sherlock, 'I expect you to repeat all that at the station tomorrow. Call your brother if you don't want your father to accompany you. Need a lift?'

Sherlock is slowly untying the rope from the branch, taking off the harness, 'No, we will walk.' And the boy and his horse slowly stumble away, leaving Lestrade staring into the nothingness for a while, although his iron grip on Hudson't forearm never weakens.


	4. Chapter 4

The boy is a man now.

Warning: this is more angsty than the rest of the story. So please read on your own discretion and review!

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Sherlock is thirty four, a living and breathing lightning sliding over the rooftops of London, glimpses of arrogant curls flashing in dark alleys and up steep fire ladders, iron muscles lurking under creamy pale skin. Lestrade blames his being almost completely gray now on multiple nearly-heart attacks Sherlock's been giving him over years. But however much Sherlock teases Greg for being obtuse even he never doubts the DI would have made a brilliant career still without Sherlock's weaving his way in and out of the policeman's office.

On that day Mycroft has been calling Sherlock since early morning. The lanky detective ignores his brother as thoroughly as usual, running across the city after another serial murderer. When finally Lestrade has the killer in cuffs and Sherlock is done with an eloquent explanation of his deductions and earned a couple more acidic 'freak's from Donovan, he concedes to checking his phone. There is a dozen of missed calls and only one text, with one simple question, '_When did you go home last time, brother mine? - MH_'.

Sherlock frowns, for all his incredible brilliance he doesn't see at once where Mycroft is going with this. Sherlock hasn't been in the old empty (since their father's death) mansion for almost two years now, since he got clean and Lestrade agreed to provide him with cases to solve again. But before that he has been going back at least once a year to see…

Sherlock's hand holding his phone suddenly trembles…

…to see John.

Sherlock whirls on the spot and dashes away, surprised and suspicious Lestrade barking something after him. Then Greg's phone chimes and he suddenly looks understanding and sorrowful. He re-reads the short text for a couple of times as if trying to find some other meaning than it actually contains. In the evening after patiently piling a heap of ready paperwork on his desk the DI goes to a pub. He gets as drunk as he possibly can, long-forgotten memories marching in a neat row in front of his dazed eyes.

The sun is setting when Sherlock is finally briskly walking across a meadow over-grown with weeds. He skipped past the gloomy mansion without a second thought. His destination is the small farm nearby that is run by some sweet old couple hired by Mycroft - now that Mrs. Hudson is a happily widowed landlady in Baker Street.

The stables were rebuilt a long time ago, to provide a more comfortable accommodation for much fewer horses. Sherlock knows only Mycroft's horses live here now, the ones he uses for organizing strategic riding parties and hunts with high-ranking guests he deems necessary to entertain. So it's half a dozen Mycroft's horses… and John.

John's stall is at the farther end of the stable and Sherlock slowly walks there in semi-darkness, absorbing familiar comforting sounds of light hoof clicks as horses shift in the stalls, crunching of hay and gentle puffs of breath. Sherlock knows what he will see in John's stable but it turns out nothing could have prepared him for this. In his mind's eye John is always shiningly golden, strong and healthy, always fast and intelligent. This John is completely white with age, lying on the ground despondently, breathing slowly and raucously. But he sees Sherlock and recognizes his boy at once. He tries to get up, but weak legs only scratch the ground jerkily. And he gives up, lays back on his side, sighing almost apologetically.

Sherlock goes down on his knees as if broken. He slides his shaking fingers through the still soft mane and struggles to say something but only chokes on dry gasps. John is gone only minutes later, last gentle neigh more a breath than a sound. It's as if he has been waiting only to see Sherlock for one last time. And when Sherlock realizes his lifetime friend has left he loses it, hugging the limp neck tightly and crying without tears, his whole body wracked by immense sobs.

Mycroft, lurking in the shadows outside John's stall, knows better than to try to comfort his little brother.

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Approximately one year later Sherlock is gloomily dropping acid in a Petry dish of another atrociously dangerous liquid when Mike Stamford leads a short golden-haired man in the laboratory. Sherlock is instantly captivated by something in this man that he can't quite put his finger on yet. And his breath stalls suddenly when he hears, 'This is John Watson.' Life looks promising for once.


End file.
